


The Adventure of the Accidental Anarchist

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, Gay Rights, M/M, Maybe Holmes cares about Moriarty after all, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian elitism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Moriarty have decided to start trying to put together a political reformist movement, when they are unexpectedly introduced to an already-existing group by their new associate, Charlie Wootton. Along the way, they help a Russian acquaintance of Charlie’s, suspected of attempting to make explosives. From this point on, the series starts to follow more of a narrative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Accidental Anarchist

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my PhD research, for helpfully introducing me to a Russian gentleman, found wandering the streets of 1880s London badly burnt, leading the police to assume that he must have been a nihilist.
> 
> As this is narrated by Moriarty, there is little or no moralising: violence/rape/torture are pretty much normal to him (although this particular story doesn't contain any of these). He does, however, possess the sense of entitlement many in his class and position would have held, and also exhibits many of the ideas and language of his era (as seen in Holmes' assumptions about women, of course). The class element is particularly noticeable here, and in the stories following: Holmes and Moriarty are both keenly aware of their position as 'educated gentlemen'.

Just three weeks after Holmes and I had confirmed our political ambitions, and determined to spread the word amongst our associates, we were paid an unexpected visit by young Charlie Wootton. Although I had given the lad my card, I was more surprised than Holmes, it seemed, when Mrs Hardcastle showed him into our parlour. Holmes folded his newspaper and fixed Charlie with one of his most penetrating looks.

“Well, well, to what do we owe this pleasure, Mr Wootton? I rather thought you were used to wait for Moriarty to call on _you_!” I started at this, and the lad shuffled his feet awkwardly. Holmes laughed, casting me a condescending glance. “James, I really don’t know why you persist in imagining I don’t know what you get up to. It’s not as if I object to sharing you with half of London!” I scowled into my tea cup, rather wishing that he _would_ object, just once in a while. At least a bit of jealousy would be evidence that he had _some_ feelings! Holmes turned back to Charlie, who was looking decidedly embarrassed. 

“I- I come to see _you_ , Mr ‘Olmes.” The lad stammered. “Mr Moriarty tole me all about you. I know you’s good at helpin’ people.” Holmes smirked, clearly enjoying needling us both.

“ _Mr_ Moriarty? I’m rather surprised at your formality, young Charles. I would have expected you to be on more familiar terms with a man whose cock you’ve had in your mouth!” I sighed, exasperated.

“Oh, give it a rest, Holmes! Can’t you see the boy’s upset?” Holmes raised his eyebrows again, as if wondering why I might expect him to care. But his tone shifted slightly, and he said, more seriously.

“Very well. How might I help you, Mr Wootton?” 

Charlie seemed decidedly relieved by the change of mood, and became his usual garrulous self once more.

“It’s like this, sir. I got this friend, see. At the moment they’ve got ‘im in Guy’s Hospital – under police guard, would you believe! ‘E’s too far gone to speak, so ‘e can’t defend ‘isself. But ‘is ‘ands is all burnt, and they think – they think ‘e’s an _anarchist_ or a nihilist or some such!” The lad paused for breath, his face unusually grave. “The thing is, if they investigate him, there’s lots on us…” He looked carefully at both Holmes and myself as he said this, making it obvious what ‘us’ he referred to. “Lots on us who’ll get dragged out in the open. You got to help us, Mr ‘Olmes!”

Holmes lit his pipe, and took a long puff on it before he answered.

“I take it you think the accusations are unfounded?” He asked. Charlie nodded emphatically.

“I _know_ they are!” He insisted. “They’re goin’ after ‘im just acos he’s Russian. But Victor ain’t no revolutionary.” He smiled sadly. “He’s just a sod.” Holmes laughed at this.

“Well, he certainly sounds like a project worthy of our attentions, eh Moriarty?” He remarked. “I take it you’ll want to accompany me to Guy’s?” I grinned.

“Honestly, darling, you don’t have to wonder where my priorities lie.” I assured him with a smirk. Holmes nodded, laying down his pipe and becoming briskly business-like. 

“Mr Wootton, I’ll send word when our investigations have progressed.” Charlie shook his head.

“Actually, sir, I got a suggestion as might benefit us all. I took the liberty of gatherin’ a few folks interested in this little affair. We’re meetin’ tonight – upstairs at the Rat and Parrot on Highbury Corner. I think if you both was to attend, our discussions might be mutually beneficial.” Holmes actually looked impressed by the lad’s resourcefulness. 

“So, there’s more to you than a pretty face, eh?” He remarked. “Well then, young Charlie, what time should we be in attendance?”

“Meeting starts at 9.” Charlie seemed rather pleased by the praise. “Ask for Ned, and say you’re there for the Poor Orphans Opportunity Fund.” He grinned knowingly, waiting for us to work this one out. 

“Sounds like you’re organising a secret society, Charlie.” I said with a smirk.

“Something like that, Mr M.” Charlie’s grin didn’t falter. “You just wait till I teach yer the handshake!” He winked, gave a theatrical little bow, and then was gone.

“Chirpy little fellow, that Wootton lad.” Holmes remarked, as we began the short walk to the Hospital.

“Indeed.” I agreed. “Boundless energy, I can assure you!” Then, trying not to sound too hopeful. “You’re not jealous, by any chance?” Holmes snorted.

“My dear Moriarty, if you choose to waste away your hours sampling tavern boys, I really don’t see that it’s any business of mine!” He gave me a wearied look. “These repeated efforts of yours to needle me, however, are getting rather tiresome.” I frowned.

“You can be very cold, Holmes.” I said accusingly. He shrugged, carelessly.

“Well, that’s hardly news to either of us.” He said shortly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to concentrate on the case in hand.”

We walked the rest of the way to the hospital in silence.

**

It was a far easier matter for two gentlemen to penetrate a charitable hospital than a private asylum, it seemed. We simply marched into Guy’s and Holmes demanded to see Victor Gyorchovechky in imperious tones. We were hurried straight to the man’s bedside, where the policeman dozing in a chair leapt to his feet.

“Good morning, my dear sir.” Holmes’ manner was rather supercilious. “We have come to investigate Mr Gyorchovechky’s case.” The bobby’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“And just who might you be?” He said, a little rudely. Holmes handed him a card, pinched between his long, delicate fingers.

“Consulting Detective?” The policeman frowned as he read this, considering it for a moment, before our gentlemanly attire and determined manner decided him, and he stood aside. “Very well.”

Holmes approached the bedside, with me close behind him, leaning over his shoulder, curious to see the man’s injuries. The Russian was either asleep or unconscious – if the former, presumably with the help of copious amounts of morphine, for the entirety of his two arms, which hung outside the rough blanket, were swathed in bandages. Charred fingers protruded from the ends of the dressings – and there did not appear to be enough of these to count to ten. A savagely red burn snaked up his neck and across one cheek, speckled with blackened patches. I wondered what we could learn from a man seemingly close to death.

Perhaps Holmes was thinking the same thing for, after a few minutes of staring intently at the man, he turned back to the policeman.

“How long has he been here, officer?”

“Two days now.” Having decided we must be legitimate, the man had decided to be more helpful. “He was awake when they first brought him, but we couldn’t get much out of him. Screamin’ in pain, he was.” He shook his head at the memory, and I imagined the situation with some interest. “He came out with a few words in Russian – probably cursing – and a name. Fresia or some such?” He shrugged. “Meant nothing to any of us.” Holmes nodded.

“Do you know anything about the man?” He enquired. The policeman shook his head.

“Very little. His name, his country of origin, that he’s registered as a docker in London. That’s about it.”

“You’ve spoken with his wife, I presume?” Holmes’ words were casual, but they surprised the policeman.

“How do you know he’s married?”

“If you looked a little closer, officer, you too might see the specks of the wedding band beneath the charring.” The policeman shook his head, struggling to see what Holmes pointed to. 

“But she’s probably in Russia, isn’t she?” He protested. Holmes shook his head.

“I think you’ll find her in London.” He said confidently. “There are several signs of a woman’s touch – recent mending on his sleeve, starch on his collar, well-trimmed fingernails...” He raised an eyebrow at me, adding under his breath. “And, after all, we well know his mistresses are not women!”

He smiled at the young policeman.

“Find Mrs Gyorchovechky, and I’ll warrant your superiors will give you a promotion, Officer...?”

“Lestrade, sir.” Came the reply, and we left the policeman staring after us in amazement. 

“Are we going to visit the wife?” I asked Holmes as we left the hospital. He shook his head.

“That should draw the detectives away from Charlie’s circle, but I think I have a more useful avenue for our enquiries. Frisia. I have a feeling we shall find her at the dockyards. A few quick enquiries will tell us where.”

**

We didn’t have time to visit the docks before attending Charlie Wootton’s soirée, so instead we made a quick supper in a nearby dining house – or rather, _I_ made a quick supper. Holmes, who rarely seemed to eat while on a case, dined on tobacco while he scanned through a number of different broadsheets, largely in silence. By the time we left, he appeared to think he had solved the case, for his manner was jubilant in the extreme. 

Charlie rushed up to greet us with great enthusiasm when we arrived in the private room above the Rat and Parrot. He gave me a friendly kiss, but didn’t quite seem to dare try the same with Holmes, proffering his hand instead. He flashed Holmes a look of earnest entreaty as they shook hands.

“Have you solved the case, Mr ‘Olmes?” He asked. Holmes chuckled.

“In less than twelve hours? Well, James, you really _have_ been singing my praises!” And then, in case Charlie should get the wrong end of the stick and imagine that he was less capable than he had thought, he added knowingly. “I believe Frisia will hold the key.” Charlie cocked his head.

“Frisia? Oo’s she?” Holmes grinned mysteriously. 

“If you meet us at the Royal Victoria Docks at eight tomorrow morning, young Charles, I shall reveal all.” He winked, in an uncharacteristically jovial manner that left Charlie speechless for a moment.

Luckily, one of the other gentlemen who had been multiplying in numbers as we spoke, came forward, and distracted Charlie by clapping him on the back.

“Shall we start the meeting, Charlie? Folks is wondering who these new companions of yours is.”

Charlie nodded, recovering himself to flash the man a grin, and then raised his voice.

“All right, gents, take yer seats! Alf ‘ere is gonna get things movin’!”

Alf was a heavy set man in his mid-30s, dressed in a brown suit that had been well-mended, with bushy whiskers and a furrowed brow. He banged his fist on the table at the front of the room to call attention to Charlie’s words, and the hubbub gradually died away. A few curious looks were cast our way as Holmes and I joined the throng. It was easy to see why. While most of the group looked respectable enough, it was clear that they were primarily of the artisan class – with a few more disreputable characters on the fringes. Holmes and I were almost certainly the only educated fellows in the room.

“Right.” Alf said decisively. “You all knows why we’re ‘ere. Victor coming to the attention of the peelers like ‘e ‘as has put us all under threat. We need to come together to decide how to look after our own.” There was a rumble of “hear hear!” around the room, but Alf shushed his fellows, and carried on.

“Now, since our Charlie ‘ere hobnobs with the gentry…” There were a few sniggers at this. “’E’s invited a few on ‘em to our little meeting. One o’ these gents, so I’m told, is a consulting detective, wot will find the truth of what happened to Victor without a risk to any of us.” A murmur of surprised relief went round the room. Alf paused for a moment, and swallowed, less certain of the final thing he had to say. 

“Charlie also suggests,” he went on, more hesitantly, “That Mr ‘Olmes and Mr Moriarty here be accepted into our little club.” As might have been expected, in a room full of alcohol-fuelled workers, there was uproar at this suggestion. One man – a tall, lean, foxy-faced sort of fellow – got to his feet to shout above the rest.

“I ain’t havin’ no toffs taking charge! They might run the country, but they can’t run _us_!” It seemed there was general agreement with this statement, and I began to wonder – with some interest – if we were in danger of violence. But then Holmes got to his feet.

“Gentlemen, if I may?” He didn’t shout, but his voice was firm and clear. The noise died down a little: there was some interest in what he might have to say, despite the undercurrent of suspicion.

“I would like to assure you that your cause is very much our cause. Moriarty and I may differ from you in some respects, but we suffer from the same prejudices, the same injustices. When I agreed to help clear Victor Gyorchovechky’s name, it was as a kinsman to him and to you all. There are but few of us. If we are to fight – if we are to save the Victor Gyorchovechkys of this world – we must band together.” He paused a second, and the room was silent at last, each man on the edge of his seat, listening intently.  “Alone, we are easily beaten down, easily ignored. Together, we can protect our right to exist – our right to sodomy!” Holmes' voice rose as he spoke his final words, and the audience rose too and it seemed, in the chorus of catcalls that followed, that he had done a lot to win them over.

As the noise finally diminished, young Charlie Wootton stepped forward.

“Gents, I got summink to add!” His cockney tones rose above the din, which gradually subsided to a murmur. “I know most of you wasn’t sure why I brung these gents into our private gathering.” He paused a moment, waiting for the noise to die out completely. “But this idea – the very _reason_ we all come together, you and I, is thanks to a few words from one man as I ‘ad in my bed. Yeah, yeah, one o’ many, I knows you knows that!” He got a few laughs and whistles for that, and then his tone became more serious. “But ‘e said to me...” And here I noticed that Charlie was looking at me, his face earnest, “’E said we ought to fight, we ought to protect our rights. An’ I said: I said politics was a luxury most of us couldn’t afford. But I think... them as can?” He paused. “Well, we _need_ them!” There was another pause, a moment of uncertainty among his fellows, and then Charlie shouted, arms spread wide. “And _they_ need _us_!” His words were heartfelt. “What hope ‘ave these two got without us to carry their ideas forward? They might ‘ave the learning, they might ‘ave the money that _bought_ the learning, but they needs to shout loud to get ‘eard. And for that, they need _us._ An’ don’t you ever forget it!”

Another cheer burst out, and glasses were waved in the air, heedless of the beer spilling to the floor as the throng applauded Charlie enthusiastically. I turned to Holmes, in some surprise.

“There really _is_ more to him than a pretty face!” I remarked. Holmes laughed, and he chinked his glass against my own.

“I’ll say.” He replied. And maybe it was the excitement of the speeches, maybe it was the alcohol, but his expression seemed almost fond as he pulled me towards him and kissed me deeply.

**

It seemed the promise of revolution took Holmes’ mind away from his case for once. Or perhaps he was certain it was already solved. Whatever the case, he made it abundantly clear that we should retire imminently and, after a few rapid goodbyes, and a shouted reminder to Charlie Wootton to meet us at the docks at 8am sharp, we hastened homeward. Holmes’ face was shining, and it was obvious his keen mind was teeming with plans.

“The things we might do, James! He remarked exuberantly as our cab pulled up at the Elephant. “The possibilities this band of roughs will open up for us!” I grinned at him, pulling him towards me as we tumbled through the doorway.

“That’s as may be. But we mustn’t forget what it’s all _for_!” I groped at his buttocks through the woollen fabric of his trousers, mouth half open against his neck as I leaned into him. Holmes rolled his eyes indulgently, pushing me back a little.

“Not everything’s about sex, James.” He admonished me. “Why, it’s our very right to _exist_ that we must stand up for!” I shrugged, fingers teasing their way beneath the waistband of his trousers, brushing naked flesh.

“Mmm, but it’s not existing we’ll get locked up for, is it?” I pointed out. I leant forward again, lips against his jaw line, punctuating my words with kisses. “Fucking... sucking... kissing... even _touching_ – that’s what that joyless band of bastard politicians want to prevent!” Holmes tilted his head back, sighing as my lips brushed his throat.

“True, true...” He murmured, tugging my shirt loose so that his hands could slide beneath it, stroking across my back. I flashed him a grin.

“And, besides, you didn’t insist we hurry home to engage in political debate.” I added. He chuckled, tipping his head towards mine, our mouths inches apart.

“It seems you’re getting rather better at reading people, Moriarty.” He teased. I didn’t bother to answer, instead letting my lips touch lightly against his, so that he grabbed at the back of my head, pulling me closer, his tongue pushing into my mouth, kissing me hungrily.

Our hands rumpled each other’s clothes, pulling at them haphazardly as we staggered towards the bedroom in intimate embrace, kissing with a fervour inspired both by the threat of loss and the determination to fight to keep our right to behave as we chose in the privacy of our home.

Holmes’ long fingers raked through my chest hair as he pushed me down onto the bed beneath him, pulling my shirt away from under me and flinging it to one side. I wrapped my legs around him, bringing him closer, feeling the hard bulge of his cock pressed against me. I ground myself against him, struggling to simultaneously insinuate my hands between us, grappling with his trouser buttons.

“Always so... eager, Moriarty!” He gasped, planting kisses across my face as he wriggled out of his remaining garments. I groaned, bucking my hips against him.

“It’s what you do to me, darling.”

“Ha! And a thousand others!” He laughed as he unfastened my trousers, tugging them down. I bit my lip, wondering how it was possible for us to be so very different in our desires. I might take my pleasure from any man I could, but I knew that nothing could compare to bedding him, that no one ever made me feel as he did. And yet he – he barely showed an interest in anyone else, and little enough even for me, always keeping that aloof reserve, even as he kissed me, hoisting up my legs and fingering my exposed arsehole.

I closed my eyes, hoping fervently that things would change. Our shared goals, I thought, would bring us closer together. And he would love me: in the end, he would- My eyes sprang open unbidden, lips parting in a gasp as he penetrated me, cock eased inside me in one long stroke. He sighed, gazing down at me, blue eyes fixed on my face, so that I was lost for a moment, almost mesmerised.

Then Holmes began to thrust, slow and deep inside me, and I groaned, hands clutching at his back, fingers stroking over his firm, pale skin. I tilted back my head as he built up a rhythm, fucking me thoroughly, knowing that I was his – his and his utterly – as everything else melted away.

“Sherlock, oh Sherlock...” I heard myself murmuring, but it sounded distant even to my ears. He let out a gasp, and I knew he was close to the edge; I felt his fingers clench around my thighs, saw his brow furrow as it always did in orgasm. Then he seemed to hit somewhere, deep inside me, and a storm burst through me, and I clutched him tight as I ejaculated with painful intensity, warm against his chest.

Afterwards, I lay curled against him, cheek against his chest so that I could hear his heart, still hammering from the exertion. I sighed, peaceful and contented in his arms, the sweat slowly cooling on our bodies.

“I don’t want anyone but you, not really...” I said softly. Holmes laughed shortly.

“Don’t lie to me, James.” He said. And I frowned, wondering why, despite all his abilities, he couldn’t seem to understand what I meant. 

**

It was just before dawn the following day when Holmes and I left our abode to take a cab to the docks. The narrow streets were thick with smog, which the grey pre-dawn light struggled to penetrate. It would have seemed like the dead of night had it not been for the crowded streets as we neared our destination: throngs of dockers turning out in the hope of being allotted a precious day’s work; street hawkers carrying baskets of their wares through the crowds, selling penny pies and bread to those of the hungry mob that had any cash to spare. A horde such as this, I found myself thinking, could surely set London ablaze! Could we gather enough soldiers for our army ourselves? Were there enough of us out there?

I was jolted out of my reverie by a bang on the roof, as our driver called out above the din. “I can’t take you no further, gents. You’ll have to walk from here.”

It was quite intoxicating to be amongst the troop of ragged workers as they passed through the dockyard gates. While each man alone might have been peaceful enough, the surge of the crowd seemed to hold within it the potential for violence and disorder, as if just one spark might set things alight. I turned to Holmes, grinning, as the crowd began to thin out around us, and he raised an eyebrow at me. Had he thought the same, I wondered?

“Ho, gents! Over ‘ere!” We turned to see Charlie Wootton waving at us, over by the waterfront. He was talking – or, more likely, flirting – with a young sailor, who made a hasty disappearance as we approached.

“Recruiting, Charlie?” Holmes asked him, with a smile. 

“In a manner of speakin’, Mr ‘Olmes.” Charlie grinned back cheerily. “Now, where’s this Frisia?” Holmes took a step back, casting his eyes up the side of the tall ship beside us.

“I do believe you’re standing right next to her.” He said.

“Frisia’s a _ship_?!” Charlie’s eyes opened wide, his expression rather more theatrical than seemed necessary.

“What’s her cargo?” I enquired. Holmes turned an approving face towards me.

“Very good, Moriarty.” He said, a little patronisingly. I tried not to let myself get carried away by this all too rare praise. “The captain is by the gangplank. Shall we go and find out?”

It appeared that Holmes had sent word to the captain already, for he seemed to be expecting us. He shook Holmes’ hand warmly, and welcomed us on board.

“I was glad to hear from you, Mr Holmes,” The man said as we strode along the boat, towards a narrow staircase giving passenger access to the hold. “We treat our cargo with great care, you know. The hold is empty now, or I shouldn’t have let you come on board at all! As it is, however, you can see the site of the unfortunate occurrence.”

“There was an accident, then?” I enquired. The captain nodded sadly, motioning for us to follow him down another level.

“Like I say, I keep strict rules for the unloading and loading of the materials, but men can be careless, and accidents still happen.” As he spoke, we descended the last set of stairs, onto a walkway that encircled the entirety of this section of the hold. The room was dark, but as we followed the captain towards a pair of wide doors at the far end – presumably where the cargo was unloaded – the light gradually increased, until we could see the dirty walls looming up above us. The captain pointed wordlessly, and we saw an irregular patch of soot streaking up the wall ahead of us, the size of three or four men.

“An explosion!” Charlie chirruped, immediately realising the connection to Victor. The captain sighed sadly.

“My guess is that one of the new dockhands was smoking in the hold. I usually oversee things carefully, but it was near the end of the day and light was fading, and I suppose everyone was a little tired. I saw the whole thing from where I was standing on the quay – the entire box just went up in the man’s hands! 

“It couldn't have been dynamite.” I said, puzzled: the explosion seemed to have been relatively minor. The captain laughed mirthlessly.

“The entire ship would have blown then, I’ll warrant! Nonetheless, we were lucky enough that none of the other boxes caught, or things could have gone a lot worse for the rest of us.” He shook his head. “Still, a full case of fireworks has enough charge to near enough take a man’s hands off.”

“But no one accompanied the injured man to the hospital?” Holmes enquired, his words rather sharp. The captain seemed a little sheepish.

“My first thought was for my ship, and the other men legged it quick enough for fear of further explosions. My guess is that Victor managed to get himself clear as well, for although I looked for him soon after, there was no sign of an injured man anywhere. I didn’t know his lodgings, or the names of his friends, so I wasn’t sure what to do.” The man gave Holmes a pleading glance. “But I take it you _do_ know, Mr Holmes?”

“Victor Gyorchovechky was found by the police staggering along the road a good few streets away.” He explained. “They never considered that it might be worth finding out what had caused his injuries, for they heard him sobbing in Russian and assumed he was a nihilist. He’s been under police guard in the hospital ever since.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sure you will be taking a cab to Guy’s Hospital at once to inform them of the real state of affairs.” The captain hung his head.

“Indeed, Mr Holmes. And if there’s anything else I can do... I’ll make sure his wife is provided for while he cannot work, of course.”

Holmes’ tone was serious, but there seemed to be a slight twinkle in his eye as he said.

“Of course, you might also wish to make a donation to a relief charity of which Victor has been a beneficiary. It provides opportunities for poor orphans, I believe...”

Charlie and I both had to turn away so that the captain couldn’t see our faces.


End file.
